“Of me?” asked Norma serenely, settling herself in the depths of her chair.
“He is like an eel,” Connie exclaimed with a shiver. “He's the coldest-blooded thing I've ever come across. I told you about the dinner at the Carlton, did n't I? It appears that he reckoned on my doing just what I rushed off to do. It makes me so angry!” she cried with feminine emphasis on the last word. “Of course he did n't tell me so brutally—he has a horrid snake-like method of insinuation. He had counted on my getting at the truth which he had guessed and so stopping the marriage. 'I'm a true prophet,' he said. 'I knew that marriage would never come off.'”
“So he told me,” said Norma. “Do you know, there must be some goodness in him to have perceived the goodness in Jimmie.”
“I believe he's a disembodied spirit without either goodness or badness—a sort of non-moral monster.” Connie was given to hyperbole in her likes and dislikes. She continued her tale. He had come to ask her advice. Now that Miss Hardacre was free, did Mrs. Deering think he might press his suit with advantage? His stay in Europe was drawing to a close. He would like to take back with him to New York either Miss Hardacre or a definite refusal.
“'You certainly cannot take back Miss Hardacre,' I said, 'because she is going to marry Jimmie Padgate.' I thought this would annihilate him. But do you think he moved a muscle? Not he.”
“What did he say?” asked Norma, lazily amused.
“'This is getting somewhat monotonous,'” replied Connie.
Norma laughed. “Nothing else?”
“He began to talk about theatres. He has the most disconcerting way of changing the conversation. But on leaving he sent his congratulations to you, and said that you were always to remember that you were the wife specially designed for him by Providence.”
“You dear thing,” said Norma, “and did that get on your nerves?”